


No Imposition

by QixxiQ



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Cold, Coughing, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Influenza, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Armageddon, Sharing a Bed, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:01:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29594553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QixxiQ/pseuds/QixxiQ
Summary: Crowley's sick. Aziraphale's sick. There's only one bed.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	No Imposition

**Author's Note:**

> this is The Exactly Four (And Three Quarters) Days He Spent In Aziraphale’s Bed With Aziraphale (and the flu) referenced in this fic https://archiveofourown.org/works/20995148/chapters/56233354

Winter comes, grey and slushy and a far cry from the romantically blanketed landscape like in one of those American Currier and Ives prints Crowley’s seen at second hand shops (which he frequents for purely demonic reasons and certainly not in the hopes of finding a mispriced rare book that Aziraphale doesn’t already own a copy of). 

Today, the icy wind swirls around him, biting at his cheeks and stealing what little warmth he has. The demon huddles deeper into his coat, popping the collar up in a futile attempt to keep the snowy breeze from slipping down his back and jams his hands into his pockets. Shouldn’t be out, Crowley thinks and sniffs harshly, nose threatening to drip in a freezingly undignified manner. He should be home, in bed, curled around a nice hot water bottle. Crowley sniffles again, unwilling to expose his hands to scrounge around for a handkerchief. He would be home if not for Aziraphale and Crowley tries not to exude ill-will towards the angel. 

They’d set up tri-monthly meetings after the war ended, ostensibly to keep better apprised of what their sides had planned as assignments seemed to come up so quickly nowadays but most of the time it was simply an excuse to see each other. Or, at least, that’s a thought Crowley enjoys entertaining from time to time. He hadn’t come up with the idea, happy to “casually” run into Aziraphale whenever he was “in the area”, but the angel had wanted a more formal arrangement. Some parts of Crowley felt guilty about Aziraphale’s sudden need to keep tabs on him, while other, happier, parts simply felt pleasantly seen.

This time it was the little cafe around the corner from the British Museum. “Oh, they have the most buttery scones,” Aziraphale had said as they sat in his bookshop choosing multiple alternative rendezvous locations. Crowley didn’t care about sconces, buttery or not, only that the area was well trafficked and yet out of the way. 

He ducks inside, shivering through the doorway and sending a small shower of snow falling from his hair and jacket. Now he does paw through his pockets, finally fishing out a damp handkerchief to scrub at his nose and then sweeping a hand through his hair in a weak attempt to appear more presentable than he feels. Behind his stylishly rimmed glasses, Crowley’s eyes scan the cafe’s tables, moving along the outer perimeter first, even though they always seemed to end up in the middle of wherever they met.  
The angel isn’t there and Crowley absently glances at his watch. He really should just tell Aziraphale to meet him 15 minutes earlier and then he’d be on time. 

Crowley picks a table, pulls a newspaper out of the ether, and waits, absentmindedly turning pages as he watches the door over the top of the paper. 

He’s actually looking down, briefly engrossed in some hell gossip column, when Aziraphale blusters in and doesn’t look up until the angel is standing across from him, gently clearing his throat. 

“You’re, um, you’re here,” Aziraphale coughs, sounding vaguely disappointed.

Crowley glances up then with an “And you’re late” hissing out before he gets a look at Aziraphale. Pale, flushed, wretched looking Aziraphale. For a moment Crowley thinks that heaven must have found him and done something horrible, but then Azirapahle flutters his hand and digs into a coat pocket and politely coughs into a handkerchief. It’s an awful scraping noise like there’s gravel in the angel’s chest so Crowley winces and folds his paper away and stands and places a hand on Aziraphale’s nape, over the shirt and jacket and coat collar. “Come on, angel, let’s get you home.”

Aziraphale gets steered practically through the cafe door before he seems to realize what’s happening. “But… we had a meeting,” he mumbles, glancing back as Crowley guides him outside. “I tried to ring you,” he continues, as though they aren’t walking like a ventriloquist and his dummy. “I’m afraid I’m not feeling very well. Might have to reschedule, unless, of course, there’s urgent news...”

Crowley mentally kicks himself for not even considering rescheduling as an option. “Nothing urgent,” he assures Aziraphale, winding him carefully through the street to where he parked the Bentley. “Nothing much to report at all really.”

Some of the tension under his hand leeches out as Aziraphale sighs. “Oh, thank goodness, wouldn’t want to miss out on anything important just because of a touch of grippe.” He turns his head into the crook of his arm as a sneeze rushes out of him and Crowley bites his tongue about it being “a touch”.

He fully intends to simply drop Aziraphale off and hightail it back to his flat where he can pass out for a week, but by the time they reach the bookshop Aziraphale is flagging badly and needs help out of the car and into his shop. Once inside, the angel aims for an armchair but Crowley snags his elbow. “Bed?” he offers and Aziraphale blinks owlishly at him. “You do… you know… bed…” Crowley’s mouth works around for something more explanatory but Aziraphale seems to understand. 

“That would be more prudent, wouldn’t it?” He coughs and sniffs and looks lost for a moment.

“Why don’t you… err… and I’ll…” Crowley’s mind stutters through what you do for an unwell someone. “Tea? Yeah?”

Aziraphale looks as though his mind has also just caught up with what to do when unwell and nods. “That would be lovely, Crowley,” he says politely and just shy of entirely grateful and moves off towards where Crowley assumes his bedroom is.

Crowley’s no stranger to Aziraphale’s small kitchen. He plated a cheese and cracker platter in here once. 

The kettle is helpfully next to the stove. The tea takes some doing to find but eventually he discovers a jar of leaves behind two tins of biscuits on a bottom shelf. Crowley searches high and low for a lemon and some honey, which he knows Aziraphale must have, but heaven knows where he’s hidden it and Crowley’s not about to ask. Without thinking he snaps his fingers.

It’s a mistake.

Crowley’s head spins and his knees go to jelly and the cough that he’d been expertly tamping down all day bubbles up through his lungs like hell’s scenic sulphur mudpots, all thick and viscous. It leaves him grasping the edge of the counter, bent in half, sputtering and wheezing and clenching his teeth together to drown out the noise.

He’s nearly done hacking up half a lung as quietly as possible when he hears a shuffling behind him and straightens, intending on acting like nothing happened and that he doesn’t see spots floating across his vision.

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs as though Crowley personally has done something awful to him. The words are so soaked in empathetic sympathy that Crowley’s teeth ache with it and he winces, refusing to turn around to see Aziraphale’s soft eyes and worriedly tightened lips. 

“Thought you were getting into bed, angel,” Crowley snips, forcing a casual line to his shoulders and continuing to prepare a cup of tea like he hasn’t been caught out about something he wasn’t technically intentionally hiding.

“I was,” Aziraphale says and Crowley can hear his fingers folding together. “And then I thought... “ He shakes himself out of whatever he was thinking. “I didn’t realize you were unwell as well, Crowley. You should have said.”

“‘S nothing, really.” Crowley breathes deeply through his nose, focusing on it not running, before he turns to Aziraphale with the tea. The angel has only managed to get out of his jacket before wandering back to the kitchen. Crowley gestures with the tea hoping that Aziraphale will take the hint and head back.

“It’s hardly nothing,” Aziraphale sniffs, instead stepping forward and taking the cup from Crowley’s hands. “Not if you feel anywhere near as horrendous as I feel.” His eyebrows knit together. “Oh, and I made you keep our meeting! And bring me back home! And make tea!” He stares dejectedly into the cup.

Crowley holds up a hand to stop him. “I could have canceled and I didn’t. And I offered to take you home and make tea, remember?”

“Still…” He bites his lower lip and Crowley desperately wants to stall whatever idea is grinding away in Aziraphale’s brain. “I must insist that you stay here.”

Crowley blinks. “Err…”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale nods. “It would hardly be proper to send you out in the weather. What kind of angel would I be?”

“Guh,” says Crowley, mind syrupy slow in the face of Aziraphale logically convincing himself that inviting a demon to stay in his home is perfectly reasonable. “You really don’t…” He really shouldn’t.

Aziraphale flaps a hand at him “Nonsense, Crowley. You’re in no condition to drive yourself anywhere. I won’t hear of it.” 

There’s only one bed. Aziraphale’s bed. His single bed. “There’s only one bed,” says Crowley.

Aziraphale gives him a look over his shoulder as he digs through a chest of drawers. “One generally doesn’t own more than one bed,” he sniffs. “Do they? I will admit that it’s been a few years since…” His eyes skitter away and he busies himself with the drawer.

Crowley grinds his teeth. He should leave. The snow isn’t so terrible. He could make it. Aziraphale carries over two sets of pyjamas and holds one out to Crowley, because the demon is still standing there. 

Pyjamas. Aziraphale’s pyjamas. Crowley’s eye twitches behind his shades. 

“I believe they’ll fit. 'bit large on you, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale huffs out a laugh, which ends in a cough. When Crowley doesn’t take the clothes he frowns, eyes moving between Crowley and the pyjamas. “Oh… of course, you wouldn’t…” and then before Crowley can stop him he clicks his fingers, changing the pale tartan pattern into something lush and black. 

Aziraphale reels and Crowley snaps out of it, darting forward and wrapping his arm around the angel to steady him. “Stupid,” he hisses at the same time Aziraphale chuckles. “Oh, that is a bit of a head rush, isn’t it?” 

He pats Crowley gently when the demon takes too long to release him and carefully makes his way to the other side of the bed where he begins undressing, seemingly uncaring that Crowley is watching. 

Bowtie. Vest. The buttons on the cuffs of his shirt. 

Crowley stops watching. He stops watching and turns away and forgets entirely how his own clothing works.

“You can’t sleep in your street clothes, Crowley,” Aziraphale says behind him, like a reprimand. “I’m sure you sleep in something…”

“‘S fine, yeah, I sleep, not in… yeah, ‘s all good,” he babbles and blindly fumbling at the pyjamas in his hands and trying to remember how buttons work. 

When he turns back around Aziraphale is dressed and easing himself into the bed with a groan. Crowley perches on the edge, wondering if he should risk miracling the bed larger. It’s not small, not really, not with the way Aziraphale likes luxurious things, but still… it might not really be large enough. He really probably should...

Aziraphale taps him on the shoulder and he startles, swinging around and nearly knocking the cup of tea out of the angel’s hand. “Honestly, Crowley,” Aziraphale tsks at him and shoves the tea closer. “Drink some, you could use it.”

Crowley shakes his head. “It’s yours, angel.” His tea, his pyjamas, his bed. Crowley’s head whirls and he leans back against the headboard.

“Well, I’m hardly going back to the kitchen,” Aziraphale sighs, not entirely unkindly. “There’s no reason we can’t share.” He scrubs a finger under his nose scrunching up the pinkened outer edges. “Not going to catch anything off each other, now are we?”

Crowley supposes not. He takes the mug and sips a tiny amount. It’s sweet and heavy going down. Aziraphale makes a ‘more’ gesture with his hand and busies himself with digging out a stack of handkerchiefs from the side table and portioning off an amount for Crowley while the demon sips again. The mug is a little more than half full when Aziraphale finally accepts it back with a pleased smile and finishes it off in two pulls. 

They lie down and Crowley realizes that there’s enough space for both of them to lie on their backs without touching. Even if he reached over a bit there’s a fair amount of space before he’d encounter Aziraphale. 

He can do this. It’s not like they haven’t shared sleeping places before. Those were all just… different times, different social mores, different levels of acceptability. But this? This will be fine.

Crowley wakes up hot and constricted and for a terrible moment he doesn’t know where he is and then after another terrible moment remembers exactly where he is and who he’s with and then realizes that in his sleep Aziraphale has pressed close and thrown an arm over him. Crowley swallows. 

“Angel,” he whispers.

Nothing.

Crowley shimmies a bit. “Aziraphale,” he says a touch louder.

“Hmm?” The angel snuffles and sighs into his ear.

Crowley closes his eyes. “You’re…” what? on me? smothering me? too close? He doesn’t want to make it sound like a problem, just something that Aziraphale should be aware of.

“‘M cold.” Aziraphale sniffs and presses closer, a slight tremble rippling over him. And then Crowley can feel him hesitate, muscles tensing. “Is that…?”

“It’s fine,” Crowley whispers, quickly and softly, and makes himself relax back against his pillow. “Entirely fine, angel.” He snakes his arm under Aziraphale’s neck, snagging a corner of the blanket and pulling it up over his shoulder and rubbing a comforting circle across the angel’s back until he relaxes back against Crowley.

Aziraphale drops off into sleep almost immediately and Crowley figures he wasn’t much awake to begin with. It takes Crowley longer, but eventually Aziraphale’s steady, congested breathing drags him under too.

“It will make you feel better,” Aziraphale insists, holding the pungent-smelling jar in front of Crowley. 

Crowley doubts it. He doesn’t want to be ungrateful, Aziraphale has been an excellent host all day. But this… new-fangled quackery is really a step too far in Crowley’s mind.

“It’s hardly newfangled,” Aziraphale sniffs and roughly unscrews the lid. “You’ve just slept through the invention.” 

Oh. Crowley’s fingers twist at the bedspread and he wishes Aziraphale hadn’t so nicely assured him that there was no need for his glasses earlier. “You really don’t have to bother…” He’d rather not rehash that particular can of worms at the moment.

Aziraphale sits on the edge of the bed. “That cough of yours is a bother,” he retorts. But the way he says it, offhanded and not looking at Crowley, makes the demon think that it really is a bother and not just because the harsh bark of it woke Aziraphale from the light doze he had been partaking in.

He watches Aziraphale dip two fingers into the jar and pull out a thick, pale glob and then aim for Crowley’s chest. The demon pulls back, eyebrows arching into his hairline. “What’re you doing?” he asks, voice catching roughly in his throat.

“Honestly Crowley, where did you think it went?” Aziraphale holds his fingers over the jar, eyes practically rolling and patience clearly wearing thin.

Crowley shakes his head. “Hadn’t the foggiest, angel.” He hadn’t even begun to think about Aziraphale actually digging the stuff out, with his own fingers, and handing it over to Crowley, let alone offering to… Crowley’s mind doesn’t need to provide him with a picture as Aziraphale takes his momentary silence and befuddlement as consent to rub the glob all over his chest. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley hisses. “That’s…”

“Oh yes, it’s a bit bracing, but I assure you…” Aziraphale trails off, eyes on Crowley’s chest like his mind had just caught up with what his fingers were doing. “It’s really quite helpful for congestion.” He drags his eyes up from Crowley’s chest to his face.

“Feels helpful,” Crowley says, helpfully.

Aziraphale makes a noise and his throat clicks as he swallows. He pulls his fingers back and absently wipes them across his own chest before fumbling for the lid and screwing it back on. 

Crowley sets a hand on his arm to stop him from standing. “Here, angel,” he swipes across his chest, gathering up excess rub onto his fingers and then slips them inside Aziraphale’s pyjama top, sliding them around in the same circular motions Aziraphale had used. “Shouldn’t neglect yourself.”

Crowley’s hot. He’s hot and he’s freezing and the blankets are too much and not enough. He aches, bone and chest deep, and he worries that he’s fallen into hell until a voice reminds him that he hasn’t. 

When Crowley opens his eyes they’re sticky with sleep and lingering fever. He glances across to Aziraphale. The angel is haloed by the late afternoon sunbeams streaming through the curtains, carefully sipping a cup of tea. He must make a small noise because Aziraphale's eyes turn to him. "Are you with me?" he asks in a cracked whisper. Cowley blinks. "Always," he says before his mind can catch up with his mouth. Aziraphale smiles sadly and he suddenly looks very old. "Not always, my dear," he says and Crowley's eyes slide closed again.

The next time Crowley wakes he has enough sense to stumble out of bed and to the bathroom and really properly make an effort at waking up. He feels... not great, but he's up and there's not an entirely horrifying wheeze when he breathes so he figures he can take it as a win. When he stumbles back he finds Aziraphale curled under the blankets, face drawn and flushed. He wets a flannel from the bathroom and lays it across the angel's forehead before gathering the empty teacups and taking them to the kitchen for a wash and refill.

As he’s setting a refilled and lightly miracled to stay the perfect temperature cup of tea on the side table next to Aziraphale the angel reaches out from under the covers and wraps his fingers weakly around his wrist. 

“You should lie down,” Aziraphale whispers, half asleep but clearly fighting it. He sounds terribly worried and Crowley pats the back of his hand before readjusting the flannel on his forehead. 

“Just gettin’ some tea, angel,” he says, tapping the old wood of the side table lightly. “Then straight back to bed.” It’s a light promise, but Aziraphale’s features smooth out and he slips back into sleep.

“I’m really feeling better,” Crowley says and Aziraphale frowns at him around a bite of dry toast. “And I’ve imposed long enough.” Truthfully he’s still a bit shaky, like a light breeze could knock him over, but finding out that he’s already been here four days (and only remembers two of them with any real clarity) had sent him looking for where Aziraphale had stashed his clothes.

“You’re not an imposition,” Aziraphale says quietly. And then, more loudly. “And it’s very demonic of you to be imposing.”

Crowley scrubs at his nose with a handkerchief that’s monogrammed AZF that he will definitely return after it’s been laundered. ”You need your rest, angel, not to have to thwart my wiles.”

Aziraphale snorts. “You’re hardly in any position to wile.” Then he pats the side of the bed. “At least wait a bit longer. You know, I’m still feeling a tad peckish,” he says, brushing the toast crumbs off his front. “There’s a wonderful bistro that will bring soups and sandwiches and pastries right to your door, isn’t that novel?”

Crowley eases himself back onto the bed. A few more hours couldn’t hurt.


End file.
